Tag Archives: God’s grace

Like very few other experiences, moving cross-culturally makes you intimately familiar with feelings of incompetence. From very basic situations early on – like not being able to tell the vegetable man you don’t want that many potatoes – to more complicated social dances you still don’t understand years later, you tend to be smacked in the face daily with how little competence you have.

I was recently sitting in a meeting with a roomful of American business people. We’d had a devotion the first morning on the verse, “unless the Lord builds the house, they labor in vain who try to build it” – a reminder of our dependence on God to act. But by the middle of the second day – overwhelmed with a new list of regulations to be followed – we’d somehow forgotten that verse. We’d been shown plainly a situation in which our incompetence glowed brilliantly and it crushed us.

People say “God never gives you more than you can handle” and while we’ve all heard that’s not really true, we’d prefer to believe it. Because to not believe it means to accept a limit to our competence. To accept there are things out there we can’t handle is to accept limits on our powers, our abilities, our self. Raised in a culture where we’re taught to believe “you can do anything you set your mind to” – nothing is more repugnant than the shocking realization we are not as awesome as we thought.

To our horrified surprise upon discovery of our ongoing incompetence, I think I hear a gentle, divine laugh.

For only crazy people would think they could complete by their own efforts what was begun by God. If you weren’t smart enough or strong enough to begin it, how do you suppose you could perfect it? – Galatians 3:2-4, MSG

“Of course you can’t do it,” chuckles Heaven. “Of course it’s more than you can handle. Hasn’t that always been the point?”

I still swallow hard when confronted with my own failure. My pride still cries in protest when others notice my incompetence. But I’m learning to laugh gently at it too. Because from the very beginning I have been unable, weak, incompetent. That was the whole point – that was the whole reason – for gracious intervention from Heaven.

“Here, then, is the hard work of Sabbath,” I wrote in my journal. “Awoken by dreams of a house never found and people mocking for it. Nightmares of life falling apart. I come to consciousness ready for a fight. Ready to re-double my to-do list, spend the day house hunting, clear all emails.

Perhaps this is one of those ragged pieces of me that needs to be tucked back away… the American assuredness that working just a little bit harder will bring about the desired results. The Sabbath – the call to rest and to worship – calls me to remember that every good and perfect gift comes from above. From my Heavenly Father who does give good gifts.”

And so, instead of fighting the morning’s panic of failure by throwing myself more into work, I pulled out the next Henri Nouwen book on my reading list and prepared to spend a day of rest.

***

“Why don’t you believe that God gives his children good gifts?” asked my coworker.Nearly a year later, her question still rings in my ears.I was telling her about an opportunity that seemed perfect. Seemed so perfect, I doubted it could be true. Looking for the bad teeth in the gift horse’s mouth.

It’s a question that came up again recently.“Why do you expect disappointment?” she asked me.And I knew that I do. I know that I’m surprised and suspicious when something good happens. Surprised that it actually happened and suspicious that it’s been given to me only for the purposes of taking it away later. Instead of the twisted “health and wealth” gospel, I’ve twisted too far in the opposite direction. I’ve become wary of all blessing.

***

Instead of a day of rest, the Sabbath turned into a day of many errands. All of the things I was tempted to orchestrate myself ended up being delivered to my front door.

Not only did a friend take me to an empty apartment that will shortly become my new home, it’s also a perfect place to hold classes. I went from having neither to having both all in one day.

A friend came to my home and we experimented in the kitchen and – amid much laughter – came up with a delicious concoction.

And there was the chance to tell that beautiful, beautiful Story. The Story that calls us to cease striving. To stop trying to earn it and do it all ourselves. The Story that says the God with impossibly high standards does not mock us for failure – but steps in to provide everything we need.

It’s a story that I still find hard to believe. I still prefer long stretches of penance and emotional self-flagellation. I am still capable of looking at all blessing – even this one – with more cynicism than thanks.

But this time, as I sip chai with my new landlords and imagine how I’ll lay out my new apartment, I’m trying to keep the hounds of skepticism at bay.

My freshman year in college there was a guy. He was funny and flirtatious. I’d never had a guy pay attention to me – let alone invite me on walks and to tea shops for long chats. Just us two. Just our words and glances and inside jokes. I wasn’t sure what was.

And then one day, it wasn’t anymore. He stopped showing up, stopped calling. He told a friend of mine he wasn’t interested anymore. That there was something about my “communication style” he didn’t like.

As good friends are contractually bound to do, my girlfriends told me that it was just an excuse. That it didn’t mean anything. It was just one of those things people said when they’re too scared to say anything else.

I tried to agree with them. I tried to brush it off. But underneath, that all-too-common Human fear had been given a face. Given claws and fangs and murderous breath.

I had been known. And the knowing had made the knower want out.

It’s a fear not confined to any single type of relationship. We spend much too much of our time hiding, blocking, preening. We work desperately to be seen as successful, funny, put-together, happy. We dodge opportunities for true friendship in favor of skimming by on the surface.

Our true selves are like an injured limb. We writhe, limp, twist, and damage other areas simply to protect the weakness. We snap like a wolf when someone gets close. We cannot be truly known, because we cannot bear the possibility of rejection.

And then God shows up with grace. He spends centuries with the same people – the Israelites – lavishing His blessing on them while they just keep failing. Psalm 78 in the Message version says it all – “[God] knew what [Israel was] made of; he knew there wasn’t much to them…”

Did the knowing make the Knower want out?

The Knower stays. He blesses. He provides for them. He punishes in love and restores in grace. He assures us through their example that with Him our true, weak, failing, imperfect selves are safe with Him. That He will be there to carry us forward. He will not back out.

We will be known and still loved. We will be heard and still listened to. We will be seen through and still blessed. We will be understood and still included.